Thirty Minutes Out
by ficklescribbler
Summary: A would-be entry for the February challenge in the Fete des Mousquetaires forum. Theme: 'fear'. Athos, Porthos, d'Artagnan. Aramis mentioned.


_**Note:**_ _This was supposed to be a last-minute entry to the forum contest for the theme 'fear', but apparently I missed it by about an hour. Lol. Maybe I'll do better in March_.

* * *

It comes in many forms.

But one thing they don't do is to dwell.

Because then it grows.

/

Every once in a while, they will pass over wisdom to cadets, to younger Musketeers. They've been there, the seasoned soldiers – the first blood, the first battle, the first campaign, the first nightmare. There's no prolonged discussion. No lecturing, no hand-holding. There are gruff anecdotes instead and unwelcome remembrances; eyes that gloss over for at most fifteen seconds over a fire before they snap back to present, because that's a skill garnered over years, too, accumulated wisdom, to not linger. They tie it up with a proverbial bow and give them like presents.

It's little. But does much to help.

Fear abates when they realize that it is shared, that it _has_ been shared. Shrinks when they realize it's possible to survive. And hope blossoms to push back at what is left, to live to tell the tale, and become like one of these men, who, despite their tales, seem fearless to their eyes. They're too young. Too naive yet to know that there is no such thing – fearlessness is a myth. If they're lucky enough to survive the war, they too will come to that funny realization, and then they'll have become like one of these men, who chuckle as though they share an open secret.

Most of them won't see the next sundown.

But wisdom and company get them through the night, and later, into the fight. No one feels guilty. Because that's how brotherhood is forged.

/

Late June, late at night. They're camped on the plains before the city of Leuven, up north in the Spanish-controlled Netherlands. They've marched for two weeks, and this will be the first action they will see. The siege will likely last for weeks. Starts tomorrow at dawn.

Porthos finds himself sitting in a circle of sullen young men, trying not to think of his absent best friend.

Not to remember the tales that he would have shared; not to _know_ that if Aramis were here, the mood around the fire would be a whole lot different than it is. He would – _they_ would – make the nervous lads laugh, take their minds off of the looming fight and fortify their hearts. But Aramis is not here, and Porthos will not dwell.

He looks up from the fire and finds d'Artagnan instead, standing by himself at the edge of the perimeter, staring across the dark terrain. Tension frames his outline - _he_ is ready for the fight. Porthos nearly chuckles - the lad may as well have been _born_ ready for the fight.

His brow creases when he notices, quite unexpectedly, that this will be d'Artagnan's first field-battle as well.

Frown deepens when he realizes he's never spoken to _him_ about that particular fear.

Wonders, for a moment, if Athos has, but doubts it, because ever since he's charged into the garrison 'looking for Athos', d'Artagnan has never shown himself _capable_ of fear.

But that can't be right. Porthos knows that - _he_ isn't naive.

So he pushes himself up and walks over, stands shoulder to shoulder with the lad and offers a gruff anecdote. Three seconds of blurred eyes as he pulls up one particular memory or another, only to look up to find d'Artagnan watching him oddly, before he asks him, Porthos, if he's feeling quite alright.

Porthos spits and curses and gesticulates.

Presently forgets about the absent best friend, and soon, finds himself sat down again, along with d'Artagnan, laughing and joking with the sullen young men.

Amazing, really, how brotherhood works.

/

Many a battle into the war, Athos's own crisis hits.

Alone in the tent, he raises a shaking hand to swipe at his brow for the hundredth time, cursing the stifling heat that clings to his skin as he does. Lowering his hand, he gropes for the full cup, distinctly alarmed when he has to wrap a second hand around it to take it to his mouth, and much of it spills out, staining his shirt like a hapless child. He curses again – what is this now? He's only just returned from an hours-long meeting with the Maréchal and the generals; ducked into the tent for a few minutes before he's intended to send for d'Artagnan and Porthos to go over the plans - _what_ _is_ _this now?_

He puts the cup down, sits and raises that shaking hand to press fingers on his eyes, hard until the dark turns to red. Something is coming over – there's no denying it. Where there's usually ordered silence in his mind, he feels the distinctly growing sounds of an approaching crowd; casts about for his calm like a patient parent calling his child home, because whatever this is, it feels ominous, even dangerous. He has to stop. This feeling of- of _unravelling_ \- this silent flying apart - dissolving around the edges – it has to stop. _There's too much to-_ but his heart thuds and _he_ stops, fingers driven onto his eyes until they hurt.

He won't do this.

He won't spiral - he will _not_.

... But who is he to decide?

In retrospect, he'll feel grateful for the timing; solitude, after all, has become the rarest of luxuries while on campaign, up there with a bathtub and clean water, along with white bread and common sense. At least he has no audience when it comes crashing down. _Everything._

Athos knows he can't fix this.

He can't end war; he can't avoid leading the men. But this fear, this accumulated terror knows no bounds and he doesn't have a clue how to deal with it.

He swallows, for maybe the fifteenth time in the last five minutes and rests his head back at the edge of the cot (when did he slide?). He is panting. His heart is roaring like a storm over an open sea, clouds swirl and waves lap against the docks of his thoughts, angry and ceaseless; a hand clutches at his chest, barely aware, desperate to subdue this uprising.

It's a revolt.

He recognizes that with shocking clarity - a revolt, an angry mass, anger born out of primal fear: the need to survive. It's like the people of Saint Antoine, the beggars of Notre-Dame, bare-feet urchins of the Court of Miracles - it is _desperate_ for reassurance, if only for a measure of it.

It's the fear of uncertainty.

All the doubts steadily denied and pushed and ignored until now; the overflowing weariness of entertaining possibilities, the desperate need for certainty regardless –almost- of the actual outcome – the unknown.

The confidence that carries him just - breaks.

It's not only his trust in himself that has vanished. For once, he cannot reconcile with the idea of failure. The stakes are higher than they've ever been – if he fails, fails in his duty, failure will...

 _What?_

It will _what?_ , he almost laughs, still trying to draw breath as if there's not enough air in the room; it will _what_ , _what?_ – more unknowns! – there: the source of his predicament - fear itself; fear that's _feeding_ on itself and spinning out of control – his mind can't grasp it, let alone contain it – he's _terrorized._ It's far worse than all the foreseen unknowns lying ahead and beyond.

 _Pull me out?_

The tent has begun to go dark. His thoughts are slowly retreating into an almost peaceful quiet.

 _Would you have the words, Aramis, to dispel this mocking clarity in my head?_

 _Are you strong enough, Porthos, to lift this weight that's crushing my heart?_

 _d'Artagnan..._

 _My dear friend._ _Is your belief in me steeled enough to weather the storms that wreck my soul?_

 _Forgive me.._

 _Forgive me, it is not you that I doubt._

"Athos?"

 _Porthos?_

"Look at me – oi! _Look_ at me. Dupond! Fetch d'Artagnan here!"

 _What?_

 _No, no, old friend – 'tis nothing - it's fine –_

At least that's what he tries to say as he clutches weakly at Porthos's wrists, no sound coming from his mouth.

"'S'alright. 'S'alright, come 'ere."

But it's Porthos who comes to him, shuffling around and crouching before him, seizing his hand to wrap it around a cup, closing his own hands over them and guiding them all to Athos's lips, before one hand withdraws, only to reach and grip the back of his neck, and that's all Athos really needs.

The wine and Porthos.

The wine, and Porthos.

For just a bit, until his heart settles, that's all that there is.

/

Sometime later, he finally begins to notice the world again, the world beyond the solid warmth pressed against his side.

"You good now?"

He can't formulate words yet. But he manages a nod, and his hand crawls to grip Porthos's forearm. It's a good, proper grip, and Porthos is satisfied.

Porthos, after all, has always had a way with uprisings. Athos is infinitely grateful.

d'Artagnan walks in to find them sitting side by side on the ground, backs to the cot, legs sprawled out; confusion mars his face as Athos drags the bottle to himself, looks up, and holds it up with an approximation of a smile.

"Wine?" he asks.

d'Artagnan shakes his head, sits, and the three of them steal a good thirty minutes out of life.


End file.
